It seems to me
that there is a recurring pattern.
it is no secret,
good art of all kinds,
are usually brought forth by
an inner turmoil,
a demon clawing its way out of the body
and often the only way to tame this
thing,
to temporarily salve the wound,
is to create.

For these artist, if they could not do what
they do, they would cease to exist
as we know it,

maybe they would commit suicide
or be lost in the void of their own mind,
who knows,
I just know that they would not last long.

To do art, one must cannot possibly imagine a life
not doing it.
Lately I have found myself extremely
happy and busy,
and poetry has become hard for me.
I try to write one everyday
but while I have many ideas and inspirations
during the day, I get here and they fade.

I am worried. I
have to admit,
I almost miss those
demons.